Do Not Stand At My Grave And Cry
by VanillaJasmine
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Follows John and a series of his thoughts as he grieves for Sherlock. Based around the poem 'Do Not Stand At My Grave And Cry' by Mary Elizabeth Fry. ((Also on my AO3 account: benedict me))


_Do not stand at my grave and weep _  
_I am not there. I do not sleep._

Dreams are always cast aside. Good or bad, long or short, whether we remember them or not; we wake up and know they were not a reality. We may smile or feel saddened or just strange, but the new day begins and we are allowed to carry on with our lives.

However, no one tells us what to do when our dreams and reality are one in the same.

For all he cared, John could have been awake the whole night. Standing solitary in the cold of Sherlock's resting place for the hundredth time since he died. His figure reflected back at himself in the gravestone, reminding him that he was, once again, alone. That dream never changed.

He lay, face nestled in his tear-dampened pillow, watching the second hand tick round on his alarm clock. The noise was deafening. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. You're here. He's not.

John had learnt that to understand silence you must have lived without it. With Sherlock, there had been no quiet, for even thinking had been too loud. He could see the Detective's face now as they sat together in what John used to regard as silence, being glared at as Sherlock analysed and neither of them uttered a word, when he would suddenly be told to 'shut up'. Sherlock heard noise everywhere, and eventually, John learnt to listen as he did. Some days he would almost pray for silence, days when Sherlock had no case and decided to turn the flat into a percussion instrument, only to accompany it gratingly with his violin.

Yet now he would trade all of the silence for just five minutes of dissonance.

True silence was harrowing.

Four-Fifty-Five-am. One hours sleep. He may not bother tomorrow.

He sat up arduously and stared into the dark, wiping his face with his sleeve.

I am too tired, I can only weep  
You are not here, I do not sleep.

_I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow._

Sherlock always moved like a hurricane. A force to be reckoned with. Be that when in the midst of a case; chasing the leads, overturning every stone and deducing all that was missed, or when bored out of his mind; shooting the walls and pacing the flat, looking for sparks to ignite and lines to cross with his landlady, anything to stir up the air.

The wind was always changing at Baker Street.

Now everything was still, and it was as if the flat had gotten used to it. Even so much as a cough would echo off the walls, then leave John feeling as if he ought to apologise for the disturbance.

Stillness can play tricks on the mind. John had found himself on many occasions, trying to sit and lose himself in a book, or do something to alter his thoughts, when out of the corner of his eye Sherlock would appear. Only fleetingly, but with total clarity. The Detective would be stood in the doorway, coat and scarf on, impatient to go, or sat at the kitchen table, peering into his microscope.

John knew it didn't help that half of Sherlock's stuff was still lying around, but he couldn't move it. He felt as if the pieces he left behind were somehow still connected to him.

Moving it meant clearing up after the hurricane. Accepting it was over.

I am now still I do not flow,  
The traces of you will not go.

_I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn rain._

Grief makes a person more susceptible to getting lost in things, especially things you never considered you could lose yourself in.

There was a steady stream of fairly insignificant, ordinary things lying about the house that belonged to Sherlock, things that on any normal day would not be given any special thought to, things like notebooks or old receipts.

Clearing a space on the living room table, John found one of these commonplace objects - a notepad. The weight of it felt different in his hands as he looked upon it in a different light. Normally he would've chucked it at his idle flat mate, followed sharply by a pen and an irritated sigh that he couldn't have just got it himself.

He stared at the black cover, running a thumb over the edge of the pages, nervous to look inside. Something as simple as turning the cover suddenly felt like he was about to open Pandora's Box. Stealing himself, he slowly flipped it open, revealing Sherlock's spidery handwriting across pages and pages of erratic thoughts, case details, numbers and conclusions.

Time stopped existing for a while as John found himself absorbed by the seemingly meaningless object. He sat on the floor, captivated by each page; the style of Sherlock's writing, trying to deduce his mood when he wrote it by the angle and size of the letters. The content; broken sentences and oddly placed words that would have meant something in the moment, and now acted as a strange comfort as he read and heard Sherlock's voice in his head, occasionally smiling when words and notes struck a memory. It was as if someone had pulled back a curtain in his brain, allowing sunlight to flood his grief-fogged mind.

And before he knew it, he was sat in the dark. The downpour of memories fading to a drizzle as the notebook ended, and the day drew to a close.

He stared up at the dim evening light out the windows, still bathed in the life from the notepad.

Hours had past, and the real world felt hazy, but sometimes it was good to get lost for a while.

In common things I've much to gain,  
I hope that time will heal my pain.

_When you awaken in the morning's hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush_

John never had a problem getting out of bed in the morning, be that from army habit or for the general rush of life when spending a new day with Sherlock. Now his only reason for getting out of bed was that being awake was far preferable to being asleep. At least being conscious gave him some control over his own thoughts, compared to being brutally forced to re-watch Sherlock's fall in his sleep.

Usually, for about an hour each morning, John was surrounded by a peculiar sense of optimism. Sticking to his old routine; showering, shaving, cleaning his teeth, dressing - everything would feel normal again, as if he would walk out of the bathroom and be faced with a yawning Sherlock, curls ruffled and coffee in hand.

During this hour, he often thought he would be alright, that everything was going to be okay, that Sherlock was not dead, that he would be home soon. The thought of his presence kept him on his toes.

Facing the day was a different matter. The optimism creeps away and the presence of Sherlock goes cold. He leaves the bathroom, returning to the sullen flat and peering out of the front window, watching as everyone carries on with their lives, battling the morning rush. Normal.

Normal no longer came easy to John. And the idea of finding a new normal, without Sherlock, was not one he could cope with.

A simple old habit can only provide you with so much comfort.

How do you replace a rush?  
I feel my heart begin to crush.

_Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night._

The footprint left on John's life by Sherlock meant that even though he may no longer be here, he will never truly be gone.

The change that came with meeting Sherlock had been immeasurable, and only now that he had the time to analyse it all, John was able to see it. Giving a person a new lease of life was no small feat, and Sherlock's innocence of the depth of his gift made John cherish it more.

The things he learnt of himself and the world, and the experiences he gained are now the only constant in his life. Peaceful and background, can only be found by looking and through patience. Yet John knows they are there. The remnants of Sherlock's influence. Like stars behind the clouds or birds nestled high in the treetops, sheltering from the storm below.

No one would ever be able to take away or replace what Sherlock had provided.

The remnants acted as a light source, a fire burning in the back of his mind, continually rolling and reminding him of all that he was, and all that he is now.

They were the only things that could get him through most days.

Time passes in a mysterious way when the world you once knew shifts. A minute can feel like an hour, an hour a day, and a day a lifetime - but the seasons escape you.

Six months pass, twelve, eighteen, when suddenly the only thing John is left with is the dim glow of the fire; the embers gently smouldering, still glowing hot enough to never be forgotten.

Thoughts of you will still burn bright,  
Your remnants are my guiding light.

_Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die._

Everyday at six pm, rain or shine, John would visit the man he owed so much.

Some days he had more to tell than other days but really, conversation did not matter. Sherlock had never cared much for idle conversation, only for companionship. John felt content when visiting his resting place. He would often sit a while, lean against the gravestone and imagine he was resting against Sherlock. He would not always talk aloud, but he figured he didn't have to, the Detective would hear him.

He would tell him about his day, any news, or if Lestrade had a particularly challenging case. He still helped Lestrade on days when he felt up to the job, and he would take case details to Sherlock in the evening and ask for his opinion, his help. Just talking through them was often help enough in itself.

On other days he would be quieter. Days when the loss of his friend still felt fresh in his mind. These days he could not bring himself to sit, to make himself comfortable with his death, he could only stand. Stand and inevitably, cry. Cry because it wasn't fair, cry because he had been so helpless to him; cry because there was nothing else to do but cry.

Today was a standing day. John felt heavy with fog and at a loss for words except to croak a hello. He had no news or case today, only his solemn self with one request repeating over and over in his head;

Don't be dead.

Because it wasn't fair. The world had been cruel to him when all Sherlock had ever tried to be was kind. To help where he could, even if it was a game, a thrill; his actions were always heroic, no matter how much he hated the term.

John stood, arm hugged around himself in the cold and a hand over his eyes, wondering if the fog would lift, if living without him would ever get any easier, and why this had to be real.

He breathed, wiped his eyes and stood stoic. He would push on, for the man he owed so much.

The silence surrounded him for many moments, and a hand found its way to his shoulder.

"Please don't stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die."


End file.
